For Everything
by PhantomProducer
Summary: "Whether or not you lied to me, all those years ago, is irrelevant. I accepted your promise...Like you said, you find a way to keep going, to survive. And, because of you, I did." Ellie has a few things to say to Joel. One-shot.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing from _The Last of Us._ Not the characters, circumstances, creatures, plot points, etc. That all belongs to Naughty Dog and other assorted producers, etc.

* * *

Empty. That's what it feels like, in the house now. Not that we were filled to the rafters or anything, never has been like that. But...without you there, it's too damn quiet. The guitar sits in the corner of your room, just where you left it, untouched. I haven't found the courage to pick it up.

Sixty-five years old. In these times, it still seems impossible that anybody can live that long. You did it, though. Oldest man I've ever known.

Oldest, and best.

You're the second person I've known to die naturally. Seriously. The other was Winston, but I reckon the strain on his liver was what got him there in the first place—rather than what we were told initially. For you, the settlement doctors (not me, they wouldn't let me near you, even though I've handled plenty of dead bodies) think it was a form of cardiac arrest, making you pass on in the night.

Imagine that: your death came from your heart.

Winston didn't even get a proper burial, for all his accomplishments. Nothing like what you got. One of the guys in the settlement actually carved a headstone for you, if you can believe that shit. Neither Tommy nor I could believe it, when he turned up with it, but he refused any sort of trade for his work. No cans of food or guns or anything. Just said he knew we needed it, and so there you go. You're out there, out in the woods that we'd combed over together countless times, whether we were hunting infected or having an actual, honest-to-God hike. It's a good place for you, up on the hill. You can keep watch over Jackson, even if you're turning to dust. You can still watch over me.

What, you thought I'd let you off the hook after all this time, just because you're dead? Please. You never stopped watching out for me, not in seventeen years, and I'm not inclined to let you go just yet.

You were not my dad, not by blood. But you were, though. In all the ways that counted.

I suppose that's why I'm out here again, switchblade in my pocket and hunting rifle across my lap as I sit and stare at your headstone. Well, that and the news that just came in, with the scouting caravan. The guys came back, basically vibrating with what they'd heard from a passing patrol. I should have known something was up when they came back without a single gunshot wound, but I was stunned when one of them finally told me. I'm still stunned, to be honest.

They did it, Joel. Even though the Fireflies gave up, the military finally stopped fuckin' around and figured it out. They found a cure. So far, they've only tested it on select people, but it's superior to all other vaccines tested in the past; if everything remains steady for another six months, they can start mass production, inoculate people. The dark days are nearly over, if you can believe what they say.

I don't know what to think, not a clue. All I can think about is how I could have...how if they hadn't...

Seventeen years ago, you told me that they were done, that we were on our own. You swore. I took you at your word, Joel. Was I...was I wrong to do it?

Huh. Denial. It's a funny thing. Not ha-ha funny, but look-at-that funny. I didn't want to think that you'd lie to me, so I refused to think about it at all after that day. I never asked, and you never told, and so I steered my mind away from the past. Easier said than done, but...well, you were there. You saw. You watched me grow up, shiftless, trying to find my way, my reason to keep getting up in the morning and not just let some clickers tear me up. Until, piece by piece, I found my place. I found my purpose in this valley. If I couldn't heal the world, I could try to heal others. I've gotta be the fiercest doctor this side of Boston, I think. Or as good of one as I can be in the middle of fucking nowhere, when they let me do my damn job. When they don't think I'll be overwhelmed by grief.

The cure comes with a price, like everything else around here. People who had immunity to the virus...they had to die, sacrifice themselves to save the rest of us. It's the only way, they said, the only way that a cure could be made.

Deep down, I think I knew that was what was going to happen to me. Not at the beginning, but I knew that it was highly unlikely I would come out of that damn journey alive. The odds were against me surviving. Or at least, they would've been, if you hadn't been there.

That could have been me; I can't block out the thought, not here, not without you to remind me to keep facing forward. Between being swept off the bus and waking up in the backseat of the truck, there's only darkness, but I can't help but wonder what...what you did, to stop that from being me. More importantly, I know the difference in what I thought then, and what I think now: could has replaced should. I _could_ have died, not I _should_ have died.

I've stopped waiting for it. Well, maybe not stopped, per se, because odds are I could very well die in the next six months anyway, cure or not. However, I've stopped thinking it's what I deserve. Despite the torture, despite the fear. Despite the nightmares.

Fuck it, it doesn't matter now.

Whether or not you lied to me, all those years ago, is irrelevant. I accepted your promise, and accepted the life I was given, no matter what I felt I deserved. I can't say I've ever fully forgiven myself for the deaths on my conscience, but I have found a way to live with myself. Like you said, you find a way to keep going, to survive. And, because of you, I did.

I survived, endured, because I had to keep going for my family, if not for myself. At first, it was for you, and then for Maria, and Tommy. It took me years, but then it expanded, included friends. Friends that have lived in the relative peace of Jackson, but who are haunted by what this world is. And then, and then...

And then she came. My little girl. Not by blood, but...then again, that would be impossible. But she is mine, my daughter.

Ever thought you'd live to be a grandfather, Joel? Hell, I bet it was tough enough to think you'd survived over thirty years in this hell on Earth. A grandchild, though, I bet that never crossed your mind. But still, you welcomed her, loved her in your own way when I brought her home, giving her a place with her mother dead from blood loss and her father fuck-knows-where. She certainly got a better welcome from you than I did back in the day, but then again she didn't try to knife you the first time you met. All blonde hair and blue eyes, legs and arms and energy. At least she can appreciate a good pun. And as for her temper, well, honestly it shocks me how much she reminds me of you. Not biological, but damn. Can't tell the difference.

Maybe that's because you named her; maybe that decided her fate from the beginning. If fate is real.

You taught her how to shoot, to defend herself from the age of five. You taught her that quiet form of love that is far more powerful than any public displays I have ever seen. We both did, I think.

I still don't believe in miracles, but I will say that I was far too lucky to have my daughter. I didn't bear her, but I swear that I couldn't love her anymore if I did. What was supposed to be temporary, until we found her a proper home, became something I couldn't live without. That little person, no mother, no father, she had nothing. I couldn't let her go on with nothing. I couldn't let her go, even though I didn't know shit about being a parent. She was mine, my deepest heart, and I would let her stay. And that terrified me. Especially those first months, when I was petrified of every shadow, that runners would hunt us in the night. I woke screaming that I would find her dead one morning, or in a living nightmare that would kill me as much as her. But then weeks became months, and here we are, ten years old already and healthy as can be.

Not that she's been doing too well lately.

Sarah keeps to herself, though she has taken to sneaking into your room late at night. I can hear her, my baby girl, crying into the pillows and missing her Papa Joel. Death is so much a part of this world, but in this haven, it's so hard to accept for a child in safety. She's never known true panic, never lived without her mommy and her Papa Joel to protect her. Sarah can barely face it. It's so hard, trying to be strong for her. Because I miss my dad so much. But I can't let her see her mom crying, can't let out the tears that burn my eyes and choke me until I can't speak. The nightmares come back, the ones where I'm back in that restaurant, with... _ **him**_...suffocating me. I've got heart, he tells me, and I can't breathe. I can't find the machete, I can't think...and you never come.

You don't come for me. I'm alone, with the fire consuming me. Sometimes I still overcome him, sometimes I can kill him again, but the pain remains. His evil eyes, disappearing under the blade, still watch me. And when I wake, I try to rub the smuts off my face, get the smell of his blood out of my nose, but it doesn't go away. It just rests.

And you're not there, Joel.

I've got so much to keep fighting for, even as the world changes. It could become safe, for the first time. The world could become a real home, for everyone. One day, there may not be any clickers, runners...fuckin' hunters. There never has to be another Riley, or Tess...a Sam and Henry might find a better life, without resorting to the worst. Finally, some good is coming back into the earth, to the last of us left. But...without you here, Joel, it feels like I have nothing.

Not for the first time, I wonder how I'm supposed to live without you here. Without you growling at me, without the twinging guitar playing every night I come home from a call or from guarding the wall. I've left your grave, wandered back into town, not on watch for the evening. Lights pour out of the rickety homes, out of the house at the far end of the lane. I shoulder the strap, the gun digging into my red flannel shirt, both it and my jeans needing a wash. I tap the knife in my pocket, walking carefully, my eyes rolling as a prickle slides up my spine. I'm feeling my age tonight, all of my almost thirty-two years. Night is falling, and besides the hum of the electric fence, all is quiet.

For a second.

Coming back home, I hear the clumsy chords being strummed, inexperienced fingers picking away. An old tune you taught her, proud from the first moment she could get through with little guidance from you. Sarah is home, safe, with her Papa Joel's gift in her hands. And it fills the house a little, reminds me that it isn't just me alone with the darkness. I don't have nothing.

It wasn't for nothing. It was for everything I have now. For the people I've patched up, for the home we built together, for the daughter who deserves the possibility of a brighter world. I didn't die; I've lived. You gave me everything, Joel.

Love you, Dad.

* * *

 **A/N:** This was just something that wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it. I love _The Last of Us_ , and though the ending accurately represents the choices a person makes and _not_ a hero, it still...unsettled me. It made me wonder at the life that could have been built by Ellie and Joel after their cross-country adventure. And if a cure could still be developed without Ellie (since there is evidence that there are actually more people like her out there with immunity to the virus). I don't know, this just came out.  
Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading, please review, and have a great day/night!


End file.
